An Essay on the Flu and Boat Rides, to Name a Few
by The-Rose-Has-Wilted
Summary: A story about love. Take it any way you like. Review if you like.


An Essay on the Flu and Boat Rides, to Name a Few

the-rose-has-wilted

Rides on the ferry are usually peaceful, right? 11 o'clock is the perfect time to take one. The sun sparkles off the water, and it waves and unfolds like whipping cream. Light swam in Jake's eyes. He squinted; headed back home. Some pixies always have problems. Why it was always Bridgeport, he never knew. Then again, Bridgeport is sort of a mess. Sure, it had its nice spots, but years of corruption had eroded any coating of beauty from the city. The wharfs weren't beautiful. It wasn't beautiful. New York was home, and it was worlds away from here.

The weather was playing its part in creating the halcyon before him; the clouds formed impossible towers over the Atlantic. He rubbed his finger on the cold metal edge, feeling the grit of the boat. Salt. The lulling of the water drew the tension out of his body, preparing for sleep. He was so tired, and the time between blinking shrank by the minute. he could lie down, sun himself for awhile; what was the harm in that. He had an hour or so to burn. Why not burn it doing something nice. He was off on another mission. He didn't want another mission, he just wanted to rest!

But Gramps didn't care. 'I mean, it's summer vacation!' he thought to himself. 'Give it a rest!" Gramps wasn't the one whop had to do all these stupid duties, now did he? Jake shivered. He liked being outside, but he didn't want a cold in the beginning of summer. He turned over his wrist, and noticed the dusting of red. That couldn't be good. Actually, almost nothing that ever happened to Jake was good. Dragons had many physical and/or mental problems people constantly failed to tell him about. But, he thought with a sigh, he'd have to mention it to gramps. Of course, he could never remember anything. But he could remember a... a... what was it again? he was getting hungry, and he knew the little food court had _great_ cheeseburgers.

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Spud was bored. He threw the tennis ball, ricocheting it off the ceiling for the umpteenth time that morning. He stared at the uncaring stucco above him, daring it to move, willing it to do something of interest. It never did. It was also to blindingly white and clean. Of course, for Spud, things were considered clean if they weren't completely covered in piles of junk. There were no other clear horizontal spaces left not covered. At any rate, it was clean.

Summer vacation was nice, but so utterly boring. And bad things tended to happen when Spud was bored. He turned over, twirling a finger on the sheet below him. He got up, peeling himself off the bed. He sifted through the layers of waste, searching for his skateboard. Throwing off dirty cloths, he shouldered the object in question and headed out the door, yelling to his mother about leaving in a rather non-committal way. That was the way he did everything. He could really use a change of pace.

The sun set the city to boil. The air was thin, bone-bakingly hot. He shouldn't of worn cargo pants; but that was part of the skater persona. It was an essential. Pants were measured so as to include not only the skater but also a major kitchen appliance. He sort of oozed along, until he came to the skate park. He put his face up to the chicken-wire. Trixie was there, a familiar face among familiar faces. As if that wasn't cliché to say so. Because it most certainly was. But, there's something comforting about them. So I suppose this is as good a time as any: "This is another story about love." What a surprise.

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And, just then, Jake was home. The shop is pretty nice, for something that seemed to always be a washed-out, watercolor grey. And it was cold. Too cold. "Can you turn down the air conditioning, Fu? I'm freezing!"

"Jakie, the air conditioning isn't on. It's broken."

"Than why is it so cold?"

"It isn't." Fu-dog entered the back room. "Your pulling my leg."

"No!" He wasn't. He knew he already had a bad track record of telling the truth. Jake's mind reeled, spinning on proverbial banana peals. But Fu-dog's wrinkles all lifted, showing wide eyes.

"Jake, you don't look so good, kid. Watcha' been eating? Feeling sick?"

"Not too bad, but cold." He looked out the window. It must be around five; the sky wasn't so bright. The day, she had run rampant, leaving him caught up in the ruffles of her dress. Now he hung like old shoes, on a hook of wood, near the door. He didn't need a dress, he needed a sweater. A nice warm one. He had Goosebumps.

"Okay, kid. Go home. Come here tomorrow if you're not better." He nodded, mind flowing to long-forgotten places.. He got on his face, breezing out the door at the speed of a very angry jar of molasses. Stumbling a little in each step, lamenting on the apparent recent cold snap. He wished Rose were here. Rose always made things better with her smile. She always made you smile, too. And, half a year had gone by. She promised to write him then. As if he hadn't been counting the days. She could come, and he'd have picked flowers, and it would be perfect. They could watch movies, snuggling up... he was salivating, just thinking about it. He made a sharp right, headed up the stairs to his family's apartment. Everyone was already home. He passed his mother, dressed in white and slicing tomatoes. She liked to get into her work; this wedding was going to be perfect! She didn't see Jake, who headed to his room, and promptly fell asleep.

And there's something to be said for a story like that. And this was a story about love, in away. Think about it.


End file.
